talking to policeman.”
“I know that. Where is he now?”
“Bunkhouse, greenhouse, I dunno.” The houseboy shrugged. “I pay no attention to Sam Yogan.”
“I know that, too.”
Zinnie moved impatiently through a utility room to the back door. As soon as we stepped outside, a young man in a western hat raised his head from behind a pile of oak logs. He came around the woodpile, replacing his gun in its holster, swaggering slightly in his deputy’s suntans.
“I’d stay inside if I was you, Mrs. Hallman. That way we can look after you better.” He looked inquiringly at me.
“Mr. Archer is a private detective.”
A peevish look crossed the young deputy’s face, as though my presence threatened to spoil the game. I hoped it would. There were too many guns around.
“Any sign of Carl Hallman?” I asked him.
“You check in with the sheriff?”
“I checked in.” Ostensibly to Zinnie, I said: “Didn’t you say there wouldn’t be any shooting? That the sheriff’s men would take your brother-in-law without hurting him?”
“Yes. Sheriff Ostervelt promised to do his best.”
“We can’t guarantee nothing,” the young deputy said. Even as he spoke, he was scanning the tree-shaded recesses of the back yard, and the dense green of the trees thatstretched beyond. “We got a dangerous man to deal with. He bust out of a security ward last night, stole a car for his getaway, probably stole the gun he’s carrying.”
“How do you know he stole a car?”
“We found it, stashed in a tractor turnaround between here and the main road. Right near where the old Jap ran into him.”
“Green Ford convertible?”
“Yeah. You seen it?”
“It’s my car.”
“No kidding? How’d he happen to steal your car?”
“He didn’t exactly steal it. I’m laying no charges. Take it easy with him if you see him.”
The deputy’s face hardened obtusely. “I got my orders.”
“What are they?”
“Fire if fired upon. And that’s leaning way over backwards. You don’t play footsie with a homicidal psycho, Mister.”
He had a point: I’d tried to, and got my lumps. But you didn’t shoot him, either.
“He isn’t considered homicidal.”
I glanced at Zinnie for confirmation. She didn’t speak, or look in my direction. Her pretty head was cocked sideways in a strained listening attitude. The deputy said:
“You should talk to the sheriff about that.”
“He didn’t threaten Yogan, did he?”
“Maybe not. The Jap and him are old pals. Or maybe he did, and the Jap ain’t telling us. We do know he’s carrying a gun, and he knows how to use it.”
“I’d like to talk to Yogan.”
“If you think it’ll do you any good. Last I saw of him he was in the bunkhouse.”
He pointed between the oaks to an old adobe which stood on the edge of the groves. Behind us, the sound of an approaching car floated over the housetop.
“Excuse me, Mr. Carmichael,” Zinnie said. “That must be my husband.”
Walking quickly, she disappeared around the side of the house. Carmichael pulled his gun and trotted after her. I followed along, around the attached greenhouse which flanked the side of the house.
A silver-gray Jaguar stopped behind the Buick convertible in the driveway. Running across the lawn toward the sports car, under the towering sky, Zinnie looked like a little puppet, black and white and gold, jerked across green baize. The big man who got out of the car slowed her with a gesture of his hand. She looked back at me and the deputy, stumbling a little on her heels, and assumed an awkward noncommittal pose.
chapter
10
T HE driver of the Jaguar had dressed himself to match it. He had on gray flannels, gray suede shoes, a gray silk shirt, a gray tie with a metallic sheen. In striking contrast, his face had the polished brown finish of hand-rubbed wood. Even at a distance, I could see he used it as an actor might. He was conscious of planes and angles, and the way his white teeth flashed
“I know that. Where is he now?”
“Bunkhouse, greenhouse, I dunno.” The houseboy shrugged. “I pay no attention to Sam Yogan.”
“I know that, too.”
Zinnie moved impatiently through a utility room to the back door. As soon as we stepped outside, a young man in a western hat raised his head from behind a pile of oak logs. He came around the woodpile, replacing his gun in its holster, swaggering slightly in his deputy’s suntans.
“I’d stay inside if I was you, Mrs. Hallman. That way we can look after you better.” He looked inquiringly at me.
“Mr. Archer is a private detective.”
A peevish look crossed the young deputy’s face, as though my presence threatened to spoil the game. I hoped it would. There were too many guns around.
“Any sign of Carl Hallman?” I asked him.
“You check in with the sheriff?”
“I checked in.” Ostensibly to Zinnie, I said: “Didn’t you say there wouldn’t be any shooting? That the sheriff’s men would take your brother-in-law without hurting him?”
“Yes. Sheriff Ostervelt promised to do his best.”
“We can’t guarantee nothing,” the young deputy said. Even as he spoke, he was scanning the tree-shaded recesses of the back yard, and the dense green of the trees thatstretched beyond. “We got a dangerous man to deal with. He bust out of a security ward last night, stole a car for his getaway, probably stole the gun he’s carrying.”
“How do you know he stole a car?”
“We found it, stashed in a tractor turnaround between here and the main road. Right near where the old Jap ran into him.”
“Green Ford convertible?”
“Yeah. You seen it?”
“It’s my car.”
“No kidding? How’d he happen to steal your car?”
“He didn’t exactly steal it. I’m laying no charges. Take it easy with him if you see him.”
The deputy’s face hardened obtusely. “I got my orders.”
“What are they?”
“Fire if fired upon. And that’s leaning way over backwards. You don’t play footsie with a homicidal psycho, Mister.”
He had a point: I’d tried to, and got my lumps. But you didn’t shoot him, either.
“He isn’t considered homicidal.”
I glanced at Zinnie for confirmation. She didn’t speak, or look in my direction. Her pretty head was cocked sideways in a strained listening attitude. The deputy said:
“You should talk to the sheriff about that.”
“He didn’t threaten Yogan, did he?”
“Maybe not. The Jap and him are old pals. Or maybe he did, and the Jap ain’t telling us. We do know he’s carrying a gun, and he knows how to use it.”
“I’d like to talk to Yogan.”
“If you think it’ll do you any good. Last I saw of him he was in the bunkhouse.”
He pointed between the oaks to an old adobe which stood on the edge of the groves. Behind us, the sound of an approaching car floated over the housetop.
“Excuse me, Mr. Carmichael,” Zinnie said. “That must be my husband.”
Walking quickly, she disappeared around the side of the house. Carmichael pulled his gun and trotted after her. I followed along, around the attached greenhouse which flanked the side of the house.
A silver-gray Jaguar stopped behind the Buick convertible in the driveway. Running across the lawn toward the sports car, under the towering sky, Zinnie looked like a little puppet, black and white and gold, jerked across green baize. The big man who got out of the car slowed her with a gesture of his hand. She looked back at me and the deputy, stumbling a little on her heels, and assumed an awkward noncommittal pose.
chapter
10
T HE driver of the Jaguar had dressed himself to match it. He had on gray flannels, gray suede shoes, a gray silk shirt, a gray tie with a metallic sheen. In striking contrast, his face had the polished brown finish of hand-rubbed wood. Even at a distance, I could see he used it as an actor might. He was conscious of planes and angles, and the way his white teeth flashed